


Focus

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fantasizing, Fighting Kink, Knifeplay, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Swordfighting, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: When Claude von Riegan interrupts his early-morning training session, Felix learns what it really means to fight dirty.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 23
Kudos: 143





	Focus

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of a shower thought: "Felix hates chivalry, so of course he'd be into it if someone pulled a knife on him during a fair fight. But who would -- Oh. Claude, obviously." 
> 
> And thus... this.
> 
> (Fic alternatively titled: "Is that a knife in your pants or are you just happy to see me?")

Felix is up early. He always is, even on days when there are no classes. The earlier he rises, the earlier he can get to the training grounds, and the longer he has to practice alone before anyone else shows up to bother him. 

He likes the early-morning air, besides. It’s refreshing and familiar, cool on his skin, like a gentle midday breeze back home. It’s quiet out this early, too, allowing him to calm his thoughts and focus on what he needs to work on. He hums. Yesterday was force, power, precision. Today, technique. New positions and motions. Ways to catch an opponent off-guard. 

He is the one caught off-guard, however. The training hall is already occupied. 

Claude von Riegan turns to face Felix as he pushes the doors open. A smile spreads over his face, far too chipper for the early morning hour. “Well, if it isn’t the esteemed heir to House Fraldarius!” Claude says. His voice is irritatingly cheerful, too. “What brings you here so bright and early?” 

Felix ignores him and heads straight for the weapons rack. 

“...Okay, you’re still tired. Fair enough.” Claude shrugs, and the only reason Felix sees the motion at all is because he has to pass by Claude to get to his destination. He selects an iron sword (the second-best one, apparently, because infuriatingly, Claude has already picked the good one for himself) and brushes right past Claude again on his way to set up a training dummy. 

He sets it up in silence, pointedly not facing his unwelcome companion, because he is determined not to let Claude von _fucking_ Riegan and his irksome, sword-stealing presence get in the way of his training. Said unwelcome companion thankfully seems to understand that, at least, and he turns back to his own target.

Felix takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. _Focus_. 

He swings.

The training dummy holds fast against his first strike, and then the second, the third, the fourth. Felix isn’t looking to damage it or knock it over this time -- he’s much more concerned with _where_ he hits it than with _how hard_. 

Five, six, seven -- not bad. He shifts, moving his weight from one foot to the other -- hits again -- eight, nine -- and stops. He’s hitting, yes, but his aim is off. He might have blamed the early hour back before he’d made a routine of waking at dawn, but this time, he knows that’s not the problem. The _problem_ , he’s certain, is the eyes he can feel on the back of his neck.

“Stop watching me. I can’t focus.” He doesn’t look at Claude, but he _does_ hear his quiet, sheepish laugh. 

“And deny myself the chance to learn something? Felix, it’s like you don’t know me at all.” 

“I know enough.” And whatever else Claude says, he ignores it in favour of resuming his training. 

Not that _that_ lasts long. Barely ten minutes go by before Claude has made his way over, tilting his head this way and that as he observes Felix’s technique. 

Felix growls. He can’t train like this. 

"What do you want, Claude?" he spits without turning from his target to speak to the Golden Deer's leader. He strikes the training dummy without missing a beat, and though amused, does not smile when Claude takes a step back to avoid the next swing.

Claude rights himself quickly, as if nothing about this exchange and his proximity to Felix’s blade were unnerving. "Oh, not much,” he says. Felix hits the dummy again. “But I was hoping for a training partner."

Now _that_ gets Felix's attention. He shifts out of stance and turns, eyeing Claude suspiciously. "And you're asking me because...?"

Claude shrugs with one shoulder, closes one eye, smiles with one corner of his mouth. It would have been charming, Felix is sure, if he were the type to fall for such stupid tactics. "Teach says I need to work on my swordsmanship. Says I don't take close-quarters combat 'seriously' enough." He rolls his eyes. Felix snorts.

"They're right."

"Hey, hey, don't you start, too." But despite the criticism, Claude laughs. "Forgive me for wanting to solve my problems with _words_ , not violence. And anyhow, it doesn't matter if I'm bad with a sword if I can stick an arrow between someone's eyes before they even get close, does it?"

It's sound logic, Felix has to admit. Not that he would ever say so out loud. "Assuming you _can_."

"Oh, I can."

Felix narrows his eyes and looks Claude over critically. The smooth confidence in his tone reminds him a little bit too much of a certain someone, and the smug grin doesn't help. Unlike that certain someone, however, Claude actually has the skill to back his claims up -- at least with a bow. With a sword...

"Whatever." Felix scoffs, and looks toward the weapons' rack. "Do you want to train or not?"

Claude grins. "There's that smile!" He throws an arm around Felix's shoulder, only to immediately have it thrown off as Felix takes up stance. He raises his sword, ready--

"But we use _practice_ swords."

 _Coward._ "Fine."

* * *

They stand across from each other, far enough that only the tips of their training swords can meet. Felix rolls his neck. He meets Claude's eyes -- calculating and bright, but not quite bright enough to match the smile on his face.

Not unusual for him. Still, Felix doesn't like it. It sets his teeth on edge.

"Are you ready?" Claude asks.

"Of course. Quit wasting time.”

“Great. Count us down then, will you?" Claude's fingers flex around the sword's hilt. Felix watches the blade -- slightly off-centre. A right-side strike, low. Rib cage, most likely.

Felix tightens his grip. Block, turn, swing. Easy. "Fine. Three... two..."

Claude lunges.

Felix steps back, eyes wide. On instinct more than anything, he raises his sword and clumsily blocks the hit aimed at his right side. He's off-balance, though, and isn't quick enough to regain his footing before Claude strikes again, this time at his left shoulder.

He's slow, though. Definitely not as well-practiced as Felix; and so he's able to block that, too, but only just.

Claude steps back, and this time it's Felix's turn to strike. He pivots and jabs forward, quick enough that he manages to brush the tip of his sword against Claude's clothes, though the intended blow misses. Claude laughs.

"You told me to count us down!" Another swing, another miss. Felix’s next attack connects -- but only with Claude’s sword, meeting his own to block the hit.

"Ha!" He steps to the side and brings his sword down. Felix brings his up; Claude steps back again before their swords can connect. "I'm just being practical. You think an enemy is going to wait for a countdown before he comes for my head? Cute."

Felix steps forward to close the space between them. The movement is a little less clean than he'd like, and when he swings his sword, Claude manages to parry it easily. "Besides," he continues, pushing his sword against Felix's. "Nobody said anything about this being an honourable duel. I thought you of all people would appreciate that."

Felix grits his teeth. Claude is right -- on all accounts. Honourable duels are for knights and nobles and people with too much time on their hands. At best, Claude is maybe one of those things, and even on a good day he hardly acts like it. Felix should have known that this was coming, and he’s irritated at himself for not taking Claude seriously. 

And yet… 

Felix steps back. He smiles, lips curling over teeth and eyes lighting up at the prospect of a challenge. "Right. Come at me, then!"

Claude does, and with the kind of grin that gets Felix's blood boiling. No more words are exchanged between them, only blows: Felix finally lands a hit, right beneath Claude’s ribs; Claude returns the favor and takes two more for leaving himself open. But he doesn't stop, doesn't relent, even as he flicks sweat off his brow and spins away to dodge Felix’s onslaught. And yet with every near-miss, Claude gets closer, pushing Felix back over and over and over again. He moves like a dancer, fast and elegant; quicker and more graceful than expected, more precise in his movements than Felix himself. He's skilled -- more so than he lets on.

But not skilled enough.

Another side strike, and Felix knocks Claude's blade askew. The only option Claude has left, then, is either to back off or attack from above with a downward slash. The former will leave him completely open, while the latter--

 _Yes._ It's that split second of indecision, of Claude trying to analyse the situation and take advantage of every little detail, that Felix had been counting on. Too much projection, too much thought, not enough instinct. And so, when Claude raises his sword and brings it down, Felix is ready, bending his knees and shifting his weight to sidestep the wooden blade, get his own under it, and thrust upward. 

He knocks the sword clean out of Claude's hand, and it clatters to the ground.

Felix lunges, ready to end the fight. He raises his sword, victory a split second away -- but he stops dead as something presses against his throat. Something cold -- metal. Steel.

He looks down, eyes wide. Claude grins at him.

"A _knife_ \--?"

That smile -- finally bright enough to reach his eyes -- grows impossibly wider. "Remember what I said about honourable duels?"

Felix swallows. “I remember.” 

“Too late, though. Ah, well. Looks like Teach was wrong, in any case. Seems I've got this close-combat thing down pretty good, don't you think?"

Felix's face twists into a snarl, but his voice comes out a bitter rasp. "...Yeah."

"Great." Claude presses the flat of the blade closer against Felix's neck. "Then do you yield?"

_No. Never._

"...Yes."

What other choice does he have? One more move and he'll slit his own throat on Claude's blade. At least until Claude pulls it back, laughing as he flips it in the air and catches it. He grins at Felix, slips the knife back into his boot, and folds his hands behind his head. "You know, that was fun. We should try it again sometime.” He steps forward. Extends his hand to Felix. “No hard feelings, right?"

Felix glares, but he takes Claude’s hand, albeit almost begrudgingly. But he can’t stop the corners of his lips from twitching upward as they shake hands.

* * *

The fight sticks with him all day. All _week_. It plays in his mind, over and over and over again. In the garden, arguing with Ingrid ( _Claude lunging forward on the count of “two”_ ); in class, as Annette mumbles to herself while she solves a problem ( _A training sword, off-centre; a blow that comes too quickly_ ); at dinner, as Sylvain asks him to come to town with him to pick up girls ( _A smile that doesn't reach his eyes, until it does_ ); as he sits on the edge of his bed to remove his boots ( _Claude's knife, tucked away; a pleasant ringing laugh_ ).

Even as he sits at his desk, opens a book, and drags his finger along lines of text days later, Felix is still thinking about the fight. Claude’s delight as he’d looked up, knife against Felix’s throat. 

It was cheating. Claude had _cheated_. He’d played with Felix's expectations, the values he held and the ones he was told to uphold. He had twisted them and turned them back around on him, forcing him into the corner Felix had created himself. And still, Claude had been right: no enemy would have waited for a countdown, no one bent on survival wouldn’t have had a back-up plan. The hidden knife was _smart_. Something Felix knows he would have done, too, if it had been a real fight.

He grits his teeth. _Focus_. He looks back down at his textbook, rolls his eyes over the lines and words staining the pages. Reason. He has a test coming up. And though he hates the study of strategy and magic, this is actually _useful_ , unlike Authority training -- the spells and formulae written on these pages can help him strike from afar, defeat his enemies before they...

_"It doesn't matter if I'm bad with a sword if I can stick an arrow between someone's eyes before they even get close."_

He clenches his fist, wrinkling the page beneath it. _No._ As much as he agrees with Claude, he can't think about that now. Can't think about--

_"Nobody said anything about this being an honourable duel."_

It's true. They hadn't set out _any_ parameters for the fight, though the assumption of rules, regulations, and sportsmanship had been present on both sides. Felix, that these things would be observed, and Claude, that they would be expected to be observed. 

It was infuriatingly clever of him.

And it was pragmatic, besides. Felix can appreciate it, perhaps more than anyone. Honour gets people killed. Fighting according to imaginary rules, adhering to some idiot's ideal of _honour,_ dying just so that those who are left behind can cry 'hero’ -- it’s ridiculous. Claude has the right idea, playing dirty to save his own life. To live to fight another day.

Claude has no love for heroics. He'll do whatever it takes to win, to _survive_. He'll use his words, poison his opponents, _pull a knife when disarmed --_

He hates it. And yet, every time Felix thinks about that knife, about how he’d been deceived, he’s… pleased. Even now, his heartbeat quickens as he thinks of Claude moving before the end of the countdown. About him pulling the damned knife out of his boot. It stirs something hot inside him, makes him want to relive the fight, to revisit it and…

 _No_. He has to study. 

Felix closes his eyes. Takes a deep, shaking breath as he thinks about the test ahead of him. About lightning flying from his hands, about striking down his opponents from afar, about the _cold press of steel beneath his Adam's apple_ \--

There's nothing for it. He won't be able to focus like this, not with the image of Claude's smile flashing through his mind, smug and triumphant, or the phantom sensation of being one step away from having his throat slit. And so he closes his book, pushes it aside, and stands, moving toward his bed and unlatching his belt as he goes.

* * *

Pants off and shoes discarded, Felix lies down on the bed, back flat against the mattress and legs spread wide. Impatient as he is, he hasn’t bothered to remove his shirt or vest. Instead, he gets right to what he wants and lets his hand wander between his legs to cup his half-hard cock.

"What a waste of time," he murmurs to himself, annoyed that he's even entertaining the idea of masturbating to the memory of their fight. And yet his body responds to the touch well, if not eagerly. He lets his eyes slip shut again, sighing as he wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and begins to stroke. Again, he sees Claude in his mind's eye, but this time he's mid-fight, raising his sword as he leaps forward. Felix plays the moment over in his mind: each step they'd taken, the warmth of Claude's body as he'd pressed in close, the sweat glistening on his forehead as their swords had clashed...

Felix grits his teeth. He's never been the type to dwell on these sorts of things -- waxing poetic about the details of someone's smile, dwelling and deliberating over a person's appearance or manner of speech or the way they smell -- and so it's strange, now, that he's so... _fixated_ , and on Claude von Riegan, of all people. Someone who had meant nothing to him only days ago.

Perhaps it's because he gets it. Claude understands what it is Felix hates about chivalry, about a knight's supposed code of conduct. Even if he doesn't know what Felix has been through, or his reasons for hating it, he still--

_"I thought you of all people would appreciate that."_

Or maybe he does. Felix groans, letting his mouth fall open as he squeezes himself tighter. He finds his hand has started to move faster, perhaps of its own accord, and he imagines Claude's eyes, bright green before him, looking down to watch.

In his fantasy, Felix takes advantage of that. He pushes, knocking Claude off-balance and forcing him to block another swing. Their blades meet -- real swords, not the wooden practice ones -- and the clang of steel-on-steel echoes in Felix's mind. He strokes himself faster.

 _Claude grins at him, makes a quip_ \- Felix isn't even sure what he says, but the words themselves aren't important. It's how he says them: low and sultry and confident. Claude is assured of his own victory, just as he had been when they had trained for real. It sparks a flash of anger in Felix, and that in turn further ignites his desire.

"Damn it." He lifts his hips, trying to find a better angle, and finds it right when his fantasy continues, his sword coming under Claude's to fling it out of his hand. He raises his sword, and then it happens: Claude ducks, slips the knife from his boot, and presses it to Felix's neck.

"Ahh..." That's it. He remembers the flat of the blade pressing up against his throat and arches up, back curving off the bed as he tilts his head back and sighs. The hand not on his cock slides over his chest, and Felix presses down, palm to his sternum. He imagines it's Claude's hand instead, pushing him to the ground and pinning him in place.

Felix tries to sit up, but he can't; Claude is right on him, slipping between his legs, the hand on his chest holding him in place while the other keeps the knife firmly at his neck. But he isn't looking Felix in the eye; his gaze has wandered downward again, down between Felix's legs. He grins, the curl of his lip sinister as he slides the hand on Felix’s chest hand lower, lower.

 _You're really into this, huh?_ Claude laughs in his mind, and Felix's hand slows on himself as he imagines Claude taking hold of his cock. How would he do this? Would he start out slow, teasing? Light strokes, to see what Felix can handle? Would his grip be firm, fast? Would he wrap his fingers around the head, swipe a finger across the slit--

Felix bites down on a moan, teeth digging into his lower lip as he imitates whatever he thinks Claude might do to him. Of course he’d go slow, of course he’d tease -- there’s nothing Claude von Riegan loves more than getting one over on his opponent. Why wouldn’t that translate to the bedroom? To driving Felix crazy with ghost-like touches and clever words and carefully-timed strokes? He can practically hear that smug laugh ringing in his ears -- _Oh, you like that, don't you?_ Claude asks as he -- as Felix -- swirls precum around the head of his cock. But Felix doesn't care about the mocking, about the teasing. He can't care, not when it feels so _good_ \--

He pumps himself faster. He's close now, he can feel it. He just needs -- 

_Loose limbs, the thrill of the fight, heat radiating off the two of them, sweat matting his hair --_

That’s it. Just a little more.

_Claude dancing away from the sword, a grin on his face as he turns--_

Felix squeezes.

 _The knife against his throat, Claude digging the flat of the blade in further_ \--

He pumps himself harder. Faster.

_A sharp smile, confident. "Do you yield?"_

Faster, faster--

_One wrong move, Claude could kill him, could slice his throat open--_

"Yes--"

_Another press of the knife, that smile, finally reflected in his eyes --_

"Fuck!"

Felix arches his back as he comes, hard and messy, over his chest. His hand flies to his mouth to keep himself quiet as he jerks himself through it. He doesn’t care that he's making a mess of his clothes; all he cares about is finally, _finally_ getting the release he needs, in reveling in the pleasure wracking his body and flooding his senses. In his mind's eye, all he sees is Claude, Claude and his damned knife, smiling over him and stroking him to completion.

When at last Felix opens his eyes, the illusion is broken. Only the ceiling greets him, and he clicks his tongue at it, already irritated. 

After a few deep breaths -- steady, careful, controlled -- Felix sits up. He looks down, sees the cum staining his clothes and his hand, and scoffs. It's late, and he doesn't much feel like cleaning himself up properly, so he wipes his hand off on his chest and removes what's left of his uniform. It’s tossed aside unceremoniously, and when he lies down again, Felix curls up on his side.

He drifts off still thinking about the knife.

* * *

When he wakes up in the morning, Felix is hot, sticky, and hard.

* * *

It takes much longer than he'd like, but Felix does, eventually, get out of bed. He gathers up his dirty clothes, shoves them into a corner, dresses himself in his last clean uniform, and heads straight to the dining hall for a quick breakfast before his early-morning training session--

\--only to come face-to-face with Claude von Riegan.

"Ah, Felix!" Claude grins at him, sliding past him as he exits (their hands brush, knuckle to knuckle, and Felix remembers the thought, the imagined feel of Claude’s hand on him). "I was just thinking about--"

"I want a rematch," Felix interrupts, not caring about what Claude has to say. All he cares about is finally getting this out of his system -- for real this time. "Two hours from now. And this time, I won't go easy on you."

He doesn't miss the mischievous tilt in Claude's grin. "Thought you'd never ask."

* * *

This time, Felix is ready for him. Their fight goes much the same; they're almost evenly matched, but Felix is still just that little bit quicker, that little bit more experienced. He can read Claude's moves before he makes them, aided by the memory of their last fight; and though Claude still has tricks up his sleeve to spare, this time, Felix is better able to anticipate them.

"Not bad," Claude says, as he brings his sword down against Felix's. One hand on the hilt, the other extended to the side. Just like before, when--

Felix ducks, ready this time. He brings his sword up backhanded, and though Claude holds on longer this time -- "This again?" -- Felix is still stronger, still more precise, and so he easily manages to disarm Claude. 

And there it is, just as before. The flash of a knife, the press of it against his neck.

Felix grins. "This again."

And he punches Claude in the gut.

Claude drops the knife, hand instinctively flying to clutch his middle. He stumbles back. Felix is easily able to step into his space, lift his leg to press the heel of his boot to Claude's shoulder, and force him down.

"You're not the only one who can fight dirty," he says. And then he lets up, flashes a smirk down at his opponent, and turns away from him.

He doesn't see Claude turn his head to watch him walk away. He doesn’t need to: he gets all the satisfaction he needs from the way Claude draws ragged, wheezing breaths. 

"Fuck,” he rasps. “Ugh… hey, Felix?"

"What."

"You, uh... You wanna get dinner sometime?"

Felix grins. He spares Claude one last glance over his shoulder, letting his eyes wander over him as he lies on his back. It’s a nice sight -- one Felix won’t soon forget. 

He places his sword back on the rack. "...Yes,” he says. “But you're buying."

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
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> 
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